Thou Shall Not Covet
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: It's something Alfred's never had, something he's wanted ever since he became a country and first saw this man. But he knows the commandment: Exodus 20:17, the one that starts off, "Thou shalt not covet...". / Historical RusAme.


Author's note: America, fuck yeah. I actually feel like this is the first time I'm writing America outside of the historical France series and a FACE story I may never finish. I do love him, don't get me wrong, but I just like to imagine my country as a strong, independent, black woman who doesn't need a man to validate his existence. Then I read some fantastic RusAme and couldn't not write this because I secretly ship them.

See if you can find the Inception-y part of this, kololol.

* * *

**Thou Shall Not Covet**

Ivan laughs at Francis's joke; it's a genuine laugh, perhaps the only genuine thing in the room. Francis had said the Russian had come to visit, that they were dear friends and that young Alfred wasn't to worry, he would be paying plenty of attention to the new nation. It isn't Francis's attention that Alfred wants.

* * *

Alfred gets letters of congratulation for fighting off his brother in this second war, for keeping his independence. He knows they are meant as personal statements, not to represent the countries of those who went them; they are for him, now considered a man by the other nations incarnate. None of the letters are from Ivan.

* * *

He's in Washington when news comes that the Russo-American treaty has already been signed and that the Russian nation sends his regards, expressing regret that he had not been able to personally speak with Alfred. The American sits quietly at the window for days after that, his heart pounding.

* * *

The first letter from the Russian asks about slavery in the United States; Alfred isn't sure if it's meant to mock him or is a genuine inquiry into something that Ivan does not have in his vast country. The American wants to burn the letter, wants to set it on fire so badly, but it's tangible proof of the first time Ivan Braginski paid attention to him, and so he folds it up in his Bible at Exodus 20:17.

* * *

Now Ivan is here, in Washington, watching beautiful American women dance around the room. He sips at wine and speaks in hushed Russian with the woman beside him, kissing her hand every once and a while. Alfred hates her, hates when those moments he dares to steal a glance he finds Ivan watching him. He is a fool.

* * *

A visit to his brother in London takes a turn for something or other when Ivan walks in from the other room with Francis, Alfred speaking with Arthur by the window. They exchange greetings, Ivan smiling wide and watching only Alfred as the others discuss China. The American finds himself stealing glances all throughout the rest of the day, the Russian somehow always looking at him.

* * *

Francis had said it was bad last he had seen the once-proud Russian; Alfred can't blame him. Most of the Europeans were doing poorly after the great war and Ivan had had to also deal with a change in his government, a radical one that made Alfred's stomach tighten. Something doesn't feel right when he stumbles upon the man later that day, a man who's once handsome and clean-shaven face is now ragged, the corner of his mouth turned up in a snarl. He misses the beautiful Ivan that once was as the now-Soviet communist quits the room.

* * *

After a meeting of the Allied Nations one day Ivan corners him, pinning him against a wall. Alfred struggles out of fear but it lessens when the Soviet leans forward, sniffing up his shoulder and neck, large nose brushing the sensitive skin just under his jaw. He's not that little boy anymore, the one who found Ivan Braginski fascinating; Alfred knows the prowess of this man, knows what's pressing into his stomach. It's when the man laughs suddenly, dangerously, releasing him and leaving, that the American realizes it had been his own physical reaction that had amused the man. He curses himself for that.

* * *

Now they are equals. Now they decide the fate of the world. Now they have all the power and with it the complete lack of respect for that sort of thing. Alfred smirks each time he sees Ivan, raises his eyebrows or licks his lips to try and unsettle the man. In retaliation the Soviet sends him male hookers, Russian ones, with notes like, "Love always from your favorite," or, "Imagine he's me, I know you will anyway." Alfred quite enjoys the games that long winter.

* * *

Tonight Ivan is the one at his door, thin in his coat and face unshaved. Alfred lets him in immediately.

"Do you need water?" Not want, need: Alfred knows Ivan will say no at that word choice but they both know the answer is truly yes. He gets three bottles of water, bringing them to the man collapsed on the edge of his bed.

"I would have thought," the man starts in a thick Russian accent, "that your apartment would be bigger here."

Alfred shrugs. "To be honest I don't think I spend enough time in my capital as I should." Ivan laughs.

"And I have spent too much time in mine."

Silence.

Alfred sits cautiously beside the man who chugs the first bottle without problem, letting it fall to the floor as he starts in on the second. The third he offers back to the American.

"Thanks man," and there's something to being able to speak like this, with Ivan Braginski, that is new in Alfred's life. "I guess I don't have to ask the reason."

"Nyet."

"Are you happier?" Not happy, happier: sometimes he wonders if Ivan was ever happy with the Russian government, tsarist or communist or now… something else once more.

The large man seems to contemplate a spot on Alfred's floor for a while, his shoulders down, his breathing smooth and consistent. Then he smiles.

"Nyet," he announces.

"Nyet?" Alfred repeats, incredulous. Why is he smiling as he says he's not any happier?

Ivan shakes his head, taking a deep breath before trying again. "No-yet." The American cocks an eyebrow before seeming to understanding something.

"Oh! Not yet!" The Russian nods, grinning again.

"I need to do," he states, over-annunciating now, "one more thing."

"And what's tha-" Lips press against his, lips that are smooth like French wine, sweet like congratulations. Lips that are kind but teasing, foreign but at home. Lips that have cursed Alfred and spited Alfred and changed the world with Alfred. Lips that are now Alfred's.

No air left in his lungs the younger man gasps when the kiss breaks, Ivan chuckling. "Now," the Russian murmurs, "I am happy."

* * *

Once more Ivan corners him after a meeting, large hand slipping into his back pocket to feel Alfred's ass. "You looked good speaking," the man whispers into his ear before removing his hand, cupping Alfred, then leaving the room to join Francis who is clearly aggravated that Alfred had won the Russian's attention first.

Good.


End file.
